The Assassination Game
by The Writer's Life
Summary: When Sherlock is contacted by Lestrade to take on a new case, it seems as if it is just another serial killer. However, deeper investigation leads to finding that the case is more than it seemed to be. With John in a position to be collateral damage and multiple lives on the line, Sherlock has to find who the true target of these murders is before he loses his friend.
1. Chapter 1

**I haven't attempted anything more than a one-shot, but here we go. I came up with this idea rather quickly, but it will be multi-chaptered. This story takes place before Reichenbach, as that is where it fits in best with the show. As for updates, I will most likely be able to update regularly starting in the beginning of June. I will do my best to update, because I have had to stop reading too many great stories due to lack of updates. Throughout this story, please feel free to comment any opinions you have. Hope that everyone is well.**

 **Chapter 1**

The room was filling up with water faster than John Watson could breathe.

At first, the water had come from the pipes slowly, trickling into the two by three meter cell and pooling ominously at his feet. Then it had picked up speed, pooling up and climbing up the legs of his pants. That was when he was still calm. He didn't have his phone, but he had his wits. He had tried shouting for help, and when that didn't work, he tried wiggling his wrists free of the handcuffs that bound him to a post in the center of the room. When neither of those worked, he went back to waiting.

" _He's dealt with this type before, so he'll know what he's going up against," Lestrade had said when he told him about the case._

He didn't even know if Sherlock would be looking for him after the events of the past week, but he was his best hope, so he waited. Not that he had a choice, but he chose to have hope. Sherlock was coming, he had told himself, even as the minutes passed by and the water crawled up his body. He knew that he didn't have much time before the water went past his head and drowned him.

" _It's extraordinary," Sherlock mumbled as he studied the photos of the victims. John brought him a third cup of tea - Sherlock had let the other two go cold. "I've never seen anything like it."_

Now, the water was at his shoulders, tickling his neck. He craned his neck upwards, trying to escape the wetness, trying to buy time from a limited supply. No matter how much he struggled, yanked at the handcuffs, screamed, or cried, no one could help him. He laughed, for if he didn't laugh, he would cry. There were only about five minutes left before the water engulfed him. Would Sherlock even realize what had happened to him?

" _I can't think, I can't think, I can't THINK!" Sherlock roared, pacing around the flat. John watched, unable to do anything. He turned on John, his eyes lit up like the stars in a night sky. "You," he said._

The water was at his chin.

" _Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed._

It was at his nose, and John tipped his head back so that his nose was parallel to the ceiling. Drowning wasn't a good way to go. Through all of the different murders he had seen with Sherlock, he had decided that if he were to be a murder victim, he would much rather be shot than drowned. Drowning wasn't quick, and it wasn't pretty, and here he was. How ironic.

" _You know him better than anyone, John," the criminal said. "Where is he?"_

" _I don't know," he answered honestly. He didn't know._

" _Will he come for you?"_

Footsteps. There were heavy, fast, and frantic footsteps along with a jumbled mess of voices. "Where is he?" someone demanded. John's heart leapt. Sherlock, that was most definitely Sherlock's voice. He would recognize it anywhere. He tried to call out, but instead ended up with a mouthful of water, and choked. The water swallowed him, and all sounds became muffled.

" _Will he come for you?" The criminal taunted as he locked John in the small room, and John didn't reply because he didn't know the answer._

"John!" Came a call, followed by an assortment of voices. John was slipping away, his oxygen was being cut off, and with the handcuffs restraining his range, he couldn't tread water until the water filled the entire room. He tried to stay calm, not struggling against the darkness. He started to see dark spots, and tried not panic. There was muffled pounding on the door that came in intervals, and John just wanted the noise to stop. "John!"

 _"He doesn't really care about you, does he, Doctor Watson?"_

John succumbed to the water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 _One week earlier…_

"Oh, that is brilliant," Sherlock breathed, and John did his best not to look away from the screen of his laptop. Cases had been scarce, so Sherlock's experiments had become more and more convoluted. "John, look at this. It's brilliant." John tried to continue typing on his computer, but the screen was slammed down and he was given a full view of Sherlock. He was in his dressing gown, hair unwashed and unruly, and his eyes wide and somewhat manic. John followed Sherlock to the kitchen, where an array of eyeballs, all different colors and in different stages of decay, were in a perfect line on their kitchen table.

"I've found that the color of the iris does affect the rate of decay of an eyeball, really quite fascinating. I've controlled all of my variables quite carefully, and now, I need-"

"You," John sighed, cutting off Sherlock mid-sentence, "need a new case. When is the last time you've slept, or eaten, or showered?"

"Irrelevant. Now, back to -"

"Judging from past experiences, 'irrelevant' means an indecent number of days, and it is showing." For the past week, Sherlock had been rotating between pouting on the couch, shooting at the wall (that had stopped when John taken the ammunition), and doing experiments that were even more bizarre than usual.

"Nonsense," Sherlock mumbled, fiddling with some part of his experiment. "And look who is talking. You haven't shaved for two days, probably because your razor is dull but you don't want to go to the store to buy a new one. Little cuts on your chin and behind the ear. Plus the pajamas you are wearing haven't been washed in three days, judging by the sauce stains from the dreadful Chinese takeaway ordered and force me to eat three nights ago when you voluntarily cancelled your date."

"She cancelled it!" John protested.

"If she had cancelled it, you would have been angrier, and you would not have watched the happy show, and since Mycroft did not contact you that night, he did not make you cancel it, so that leaves you."

John clenched his jaw and reminded himself that he actually did like Sherlock and would regret it if he did him any bodily harm. He was correct, as always. He had had a date scheduled, but he had cancelled it. It didn't feel right, leaving Sherlock alone while he went out, when he was in the mood that not having a case left him in. "Is it nice to always be right?"

"Yes," he replied in a clipped voice, and stalked into the sitting room. John watched as Sherlock threw himself onto the couch with a huff and buried his face in the cushions before resuming his typing on his laptop. Sometimes, Sherlock was the mastermind who brought down criminals and saved the days and was generally bloody brilliant, but at other times, he was the biggest three year-old to ever exist, and John had no idea which side was more prevalent.

A few hours passed before Sherlock's phone vibrated. Sherlock made no move to answer his phone, even though it was in his dressing gown. John sighed again, and stood up. He, like a mature adult, had gotten dressed and shaved (just to prove Sherlock wrong), but Sherlock had not moved in three hours. He rummaged around in the pockets of his dressing gown before producing the vibrating phone, and felt his heart jump with anticipation.

"Lestrade," he greeted, and watched to see if Sherlock would respond. "How are you?"

"John," Lestrade said in response. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Sulking. You and Scotland Yard have been too proficient lately. I believe his exact words were, 'The idiots have finally realized that their brains are for thinking things through.'"

Lestrade snorted a short bark of laughter before turning serious again. "We need him as soon as possible, John. We've found a body on the bank of the river, the third one in the exact same location three days."

"Get ready," John mouthed to Sherlock, who had brought his face out from the cushions upon hearing that the caller was Lestrade. "The third in three days? What's different about this one?" Sherlock got up and left the room, and John hoped that it was to make himself presentable.

"We found a note." Lestrade's voice was nervous, almost as if he were apprehensive about Sherlock's involvement.

"Suicide?"

"No, it wasn't from the victim. From the killer." Lestrade paused. "For Sherlock. Not Moriarty, but another one. John, I read it, and I don't like it. There's something off about this case."

What does it say?"

"I'll let you two look at it when you get here." Lestrade paused. "You're featured in this note, but I wouldn't be too concerned. He's dealt with this type before, so he'll know what he's going up against."

"Alright. We'll see you." John hung up, a bad feeling in his stomach. Sherlock appeared from his bedroom, dressed in his typical black fitted suit and white shirt.

"Case?" Sherlock inquired as they walked downstairs and caught a cab. John climbed into the cab first, and Sherlock followed suit.

"Serial killer, from what Lestrade said."

"Something is different, though," Sherlock observed, his eyes flicking over John. "Your left hand isn't shaking, so something dangerous, perceived violence either at the crime scene or during the case."

"The killer left a note for you," John said simply, not delving into Lestrade's bad feeling. He glanced over at Sherlock, and saw a wide smirk coming onto Sherlock's face. It wasn't decent for the man to look so overjoyed about a serial killer and a note especially for him, yet Sherlock was the most alive that he had been in days. John supposed that all Sherlock really needed was the cases, and it wouldn't matter whether or not he went to the crime scenes with him.

"Good things do happen in the world, John." Sherlock adjusted the collar of his coat and settled back in his seat.

Upon arriving at the crime scene, John sensed a different atmosphere than usual. All of the officers seemed more tense than usual, and Sherlock's radiant energy contrasted with sullen mood. Lestrade had mentioned something about three bodies in three days and now there was a note, so John figured that that statistic was having an effect on most of the officers.

"Sherlock! John!" John turned, and saw Lestrade walking toward them, Donovan following her boss.

"They're stressed, Sherlock. Our talk on good and not good?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock mumbled. "Lestrade, hello. Donovan."

"Freak," she said, not making eye contact with Sherlock.

"We might be out of our league on this one here, Sherlock," Lestrade said, leading them to the body, which was near the bank of the river. John couldn't help but notice the little bounce Sherlock had in his step, and found himself struggling to keep a grin off of his face.

"Aren't you always?" Sherlock replied, watching as the officers scrambled around. He turned around and smirked at John.

John, Sherlock, and Lestrade approached the body. The victim was a man, white, in his mid-fifties by John's observation. He was slightly overweight and was wearing a business suit. There was a single bullet hole in his chest, and his eyes were open, giving him a permanently shocked and surprised look. Sherlock immediately crouched down and began examining the body.

"American businessman here for an important meeting. There was a map of London in his pocket, along with a hotel room key and some dollar bills. He was cheating on his wife, seeing as that there are fresh lipstick stains on the collar of his shirt. He was most likely leaving her when he was murdered." Sherlock paused his monologue and looked at Lestrade. "He was killed somewhere else."

"Anyone could have figured that out, freak," Donovan said. Anderson, who had been analyzing something farther away from the body, walked up behind her.

"Anyone mildly intelligent, yes. Donovan, Anderson, did you two have a nice night last night? You were if Anderson's flat, if I am correct. Which I am," Sherlock rattled off without turning his attention away from the body. John, on the other hand, took the full pleasure of watching the pair turn bright red and sputter excuses at Lestrade. "John said serial killer," Sherlock continued. "Are the other victims like him?"

"No, the other two were a homeless man and a woman, and neither one was shot. The homeless man was stabbed and the woman was poisoned, but we've found all three bodies here, in the exact same spot."

"Yet something makes you think that these murders are connected," Sherlock prompted.

"The note," Lestrade said.

"What does it say?" John asked.

Lestrade set his mouth in a grim line and handed the note to Sherlock, so John crouched down by Sherlock so that he could read over his shoulder.

 _There are so many ways to die, Sherlock, so many days and so many people. You say you are clever, but how clever are you? My methods are simple, yet you won't catch me. Each day, I will kill again. Each day, I will use a different methods. Each day you don't catch me, another person loses their life. How tragic. I admire you, as I admire Moriarty. I consider myself a student of your game, and the best way to learn is to study and apply knowledge. I am smarter than you, trickier than you, and I have no attachments. For, Sherlock, I will get so tired of searching for new victims, and Doctor Watson would be a convenient victim. The clocks are ticking, Sherlock. Can you hear them? I have killed three times, and I will kill again._

"How do you manage to always attract the craziest maniacs England has to offer?" John asked once he finished the note. He had been slightly disturbed by the mention of his name, but in all truthfulness, cases and situations like this were becoming standard to him. Sherlock did bring out the craziness in criminals, and as Sherlock's flatmate and friend, he was a prime target. It was a success when he was only kidnapped or an attempt to kidnap him was made once in a month rather than twice.

Sherlock flashed his real smile, the one that John felt privileged to see, the one that he wished Sherlock would use more because it was radiant and made the sun look dull. "This, John, is real entertainment. I attract the your so-called maniacs because I look for them. We have a true case."

 **I will try to update sometime next week. I would love to hear anything you would have to say below. I promise that I have some plot twists saved up...**


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